The Fifth Day
“Because they’re fucking crushing us, you know?”
“Absolutely”
“It’s like: how much is enough, man? You want 40 hours of my life, every week, for ever? You clock out early and go home to some… fuckin’… ridiculous mansion while I’m lucky to have a mortgage? How the fuck is that fair?”
“It’s Late Stage Capitalism, you know?”
“Yeah.”
Philip seizes a quick opportunity: a strong drag reduces his cigarette to not but butt; a well-practiced flick sends it to the street gutter; the man assigned to the passing street sweeping vehicle collects it with all the rest. Philip’s smooth hands are now free to do with as he pleases, and right now, that involves the small of Sara’s back. He releases the smoke from his chest.
“And, of course, there are studies”—his right hand leaves Sara’s back so it can gesticulate wildly with its brother—”and experiments and trials, and every single one shows exactly what you’d expect!”
“Not that they’d ever read them”
“Right?! Like… god! Just give us a day!”
Philip’s hand clasps Sara’s and they walk in brief silence. Well, not silence — the city can’t be silent — though it does become surprisingly easy to filter out the ever-present noise: the drilling and the banging of construction well underway and the communication of the men overseeing it; the monstrous drone of garbage trucks and delivery vehicles in the hundreds; a city doing what it does best. Sara spies a quick win and takes it: her coffee cup successfully discarded in a trash bag that some worker was just about to tie up.
They walk together like this for some time, down the city block and then around the bend, making steady progress towards their brunch. Their hands are forced apart as they choose opposite sides of a ladder—rudely deposited in the middle of the sidewalk, its inhabitant fixing a sign above—before meeting once more, butter reunited with bread.
They arrive, and none too early: a line has long since formed. They look at each other and telepathically agree it’s worth the wait; and so wait they do, hand in contented hand. Philip has more to say.
“The thing that really just kills me is, just1, it’s just… they don’t fucking care, man.2 None of them, if we’re really being honest,3” — Philip half-steps aside to let someone hauling an empty keg squeeze past — “if we’re really being honest, they don’t see us as fucking people. They see us as numbers. We exist for their profit and convenience and that’s it.”
“It’s intolerable”
Philip might have continued, but for the catastrophe announced from the head of the line. The worst possible news: the restaurant won’t be opening today after all; sorry; we know this is an inconvenience. The line collectively goes through their five stages of grief before begrudgingly ambling off in no particular direction.
“And now brunch places aren’t even open on a fucking Saturday…”
Uh, sir?
Excuse me
Sir, excuse me
I am almost always too lazy to sign in to Substack for the purpose of liking-and-commenting on non-substack.com-domain blogs, but - this was surprisingly delightful, and you do a good job hiding the stinger. Or claw, I guess, since it's crabs in a bucket. It's especially ticklesome since I work in an industry that keeps stores open 12 hours a day, seven days a week by default, so even the idea of a wholesome 9-5 M-F workweek is charmingly alien. Gives me a good idea for an SCP article, actually...The Anomalous Fifth Workday. "Naught but butt" was also a wonderful turn of phrase that I'm surprised to have not read before now. No butts, Lyn!
Late stage capitalism amirite